In the Dark, In the Quiet
by MinP1072
Summary: "He breathes in, out, once more. Her soft, warm hand on him a gift, a benediction, precious." An introspective look at Liz & Red, a developing relationship, where it might go if they could find a quiet space for it. Eventual Lizzington, but it's slow-moving, be warned. I'm still working through it...
1. Chapter 1

She stands in the small stall, finally alone, letting the heat and quiet sounds soothe the day out of her. Ressler, shouting orders; the pounding boots of the tac team; the hammering of gunfire in her ears; all slowly draining away. Her muscles aching from running, crouching, freezing in place, running again, rinse, repeat. The bruises and scrapes from her one-on-one battle with this week's blacklister. She feels like her head is still spinning from the heady rush of constant movement — she isn't fully adjusted to the whirl of violence that envelops her days.

This small hotel room may look cheap, even a bit sleazy, but it's kept clean and is relatively secure — a cozy bolt hole that cushions the harsh corners of her life. _Definitely not without limitations_, she thinks, sighing as the heat starts to fade. She turns off the taps before the water morphs all the way to cold, and steps out to dry off, stretching out the last of her soreness. She feels tired enough tonight that sleep might actually come easy, might even stay dream-free — what she wouldn't give for a night free of all the images she can't shake loose. Waking alone in a cold sweat has been harder to get used to than she could have imagined. She misses the warmth, the solidity of a friendly body to sleep next to, to reaffirm reality out of dream, to provide a touchstone to chase away the fear.

She wanders out of the bathroom, towel-clad, thinking she'll climb straight into her sleep shirt and curl up with a book. It's dark in the main room now, but she leaves the light off — the darkness soothes, keeps the softer feeling she has after the shower in place a little longer. The room is small and familiar enough for her to find her way around in the dark, and holds no real fear for her, on its own.

Then she hears the sound of her name floating out of the dark, and rediscovers what it means to have your heart leap into your throat, and your system freeze in fear.

* * *

He knew before he left the safe house that it was a bad idea; that the more time he spent with her, the more he would need. But he couldn't stand the company of his own thoughts anymore — he is drowning in memory, in aching loss, the nagging pain of his most recent scars, a bottle of scotch. _A little verbal sparring to shake off the black mood_, he told himself, _and besides, she's not answering her phone. I should make sure she's all right after today_. He talked himself into it, even as his instincts fought against it.

Her room is dark when he arrives, curtains drawn against the night. _She's getting something to eat_, he thinks, he'll sit and wait for her in the quiet — her dark, at least, is different than his own. As he settles into the sole miserable armchair, he hears her puttering in the bathroom and sighs, pleased — he doesn't really like to wait, after all.

But then she opens the door and comes into the room, outlined by the glow of the bathroom light, skin still glistening from the shower, barely covered by the skimpy motel towel. She's so absolutely beautiful he can't quite breathe, has forgotten the way a first glimpse of an object of desire can kick in the chest, can punch into the throat. As she moves across to the dresser, he comes back to himself enough to say her name, on a breath, like a talisman in the dark, before it's too late and the sight of her steals away all he has.

"Lizzie," he says, his voice hoarse and rusty and strange, "Wait…"

In the glow from the bathroom he sees her move again, and "Wait," he says, "Don't turn on the light."

* * *

She knows his voice, even in its tight strangeness, and the cramping fear eases. She breathes out, clutches, grasps at her composure.

"I can barely see you," she reasons, "Why are you here, like this? Did something happen? Are you hurt? Am I…"

"No, nothing, don't worry," he rushes, then hesitates, "Just… I don't… I wanted…"

He stops trying, wonders what has happened to him; all his bravado gone, façade cracked.

She crosses the room to him, mindful (oh, so very careful) of her towel. She reaches out to him, takes his hat, tries to see into his eyes, his troubled mind.

"What is it that you want, Red," she asks, trying to be gentle, "It's late, and I'm tired."

"It's her birthday today." He says it in a rush, needs to get it out, but not weak, not vulnerable. "Jennifer. My daughter. I just… couldn't be alone in my head anymore. I thought… It was…" He gives up again, the stumbling excuses more humiliating than silence.

She takes a deep breath, then another. _He's been crying, _she thinks, almost amazed, _that's why he sounds so strange_. "Okay, Red," she says, quietly. She reaches out, rests her free hand gently on the soft prickle of his head. "Okay."

He breathes in, out, once more. Her soft, warm hand on him a gift, a benediction, precious.

Then, daring just a little, still breathing, he drops his head forward, just enough, to rest against the towel-rough warmth of her. Just to feel, for once, for a moment, safe.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking at down at him, she feels a rush of the tenderness and care that she tries so hard to hide. She gives his bowed head a gentle rub, marveling a little at the unexpected softness of its stubbly texture, loving the feel of him under her hand. Then she moves away a bit, replaces his hat.

He feels the loss of her warmth like a blow to the gut, but she doesn't leave the room, berate or argue, or even speak. She just reaches out to the low dresser beside her bed to grab something, an oversized tee, that she pulls over her head, then drops the towel from underneath. She sits on the end of the bed facing him, rubbing absently at her wet hair, waiting for him to speak, move, recover himself — giving him space.

The casual intimacy of the situation strikes him hard, and he wants to smile, sigh, weep, all at once. He settles for continuing to breathe, in and out, the faint, clean smells of soap and lemons and Lizzie, and tucks the moment away in his heart.

"Would you mind," he ventures, "If I stay a while? We don't have to talk, you don't have to do anything. I just… value your company."

She tilts her head and looks at him, trying to read him, although her eyes haven't completely adjusted to the dim dark of the room. _It's the simplest truth_, she thinks, _no one really wants to feel like they're always alone_.

"All right," she answers, gently, "Stay as long as you want." She shifts her weight a little on the bed, tries on a smile.

"Thank you," he says, barely aloud, "For being here."

Her smile fades a little, frustration eking into her tone, "It's what people do, Red, when they care for each other."

He looks up at her, then, surprised all over again, red-rimmed eyes and shaky hands, and swallows convulsively. "Lizzie," he starts.

"Don't," she says, not quite sharp. "You might not value yourself, you might want to control me, the FBI, your infernal list, but you cannot, _cannot_, tell me how I should, how I _will_ feel. You came to me, you made yourself a part of my life, the centre of my life — well, these are the consequences. You're not alone anymore, Red, I'm here, now. I'm here to stay."

He looks at her, her shape still haloed by the bathroom light, fierce with determination, and can only be thankful that tonight, when he's shaken, broken, she can see the man, and not the monster.

"The selfish part of me is glad of it, treasures it," he says, all honesty for once. "But, Lizzie — don't get too comfortable here."

* * *

She sighs a little, looks at him with a wry twist to her mouth. "You can't do it, can you?" she asks, a little angry now, a little sad. " Just accept it, as offered, a hand — my hand?"

Then she stands, her bare legs long in front of him, reaches out. "Take it," she urges, "What are you afraid of?"

He hesitates, mouth dry, empty of the right words; takes off his hat and toys with it. He gives himself an inner shake, marshals his strength to meet her eyes, breathes in.

"I couldn't take it," he blurts, raw, open, devoid of his usual panache. "If I let myself feel, let you in, let you care for me, and something happened to you because of it… or just, when I lost you… I think it would finally destroy me."

She takes a moment to absorb the depths of his need, his loathing, his loneliness, before she replies. "Always looking for the worst in everything, aren't you?" she says, as drily as she can make it. "There aren't any guarantees — I've certainly learned that lesson since you came barging into my life."

"Lizzie," he tries again.

"Red," she interrupts, not willing to listen to more of his deprecations, self-doubts. "The point is — it's worth the risks. It has to be. _I_ still believe that, after everything; you can believe it, too. But I can't deal with the balancing act that you demand anymore. You came at me like a battering ram, taking me apart piece by piece. You demand my focus, my presence, my attention — everything I have — but then deny my friendship, honesty, affection. It's too much." She pauses, takes a breath, reaches out again. "We're in this together. We're a team — or we're not. If there's absolutely nothing but business here, if you truly care nothing for me in return, then you need to leave."

And she waits, hand outstretched, strong and beautiful.

He wants to look away, turn away, can't. He wants to walk out of her room, her life, and never look back; keep her safe, apart from it all, can't. Can't do anything else but stay, because tonight, his need is overwhelming, and more than all of these things, he wants to know her, be with her, be real again, just Red (or even Ray).

He can't do anything else but take her hand.


	3. Chapter 3

She looks down at his hand in hers, and feels the tension — days, weeks, months of tension — start to ease out of her. _A start_, she thinks, _a start at building something real and true_. She smiles down at him and gives his hand a little tug to get him out of the chair.

He rises slowly — she can't remember him ever seeming unsure this way before; the face he shows her has always been larger-than-life Red. It warms her, gives her hope that the openness in his face reflects a new openness inside him, that together, they can begin something new.

"Come, sit with me," she says. "We can talk, or not. We can just… be… not alone." A little wistful now, he's not the only one who's sick of the company of his thoughts.

He follows her like he's not really thinking about it, and stands beside the bed, bemused.

"Take off your jacket," she suggests.

He shrugs it off, stands with there with suit jacket in one hand, hat in the other, directionless still.

She sighs, gives her head a little shake. She takes his things from him, and puts them neatly down on the recently vacated chair. "Sit with me," she says again, and sits on the bed herself, shifting over to make room for him, back propped against the headboard.

Her movement seems to bring him back to himself a bit — he takes off his tie, his vest, tossing them onto the chair, too, toes off his shoes. He eases down beside her on the bed, leans back, mirroring her position. He lets out a breath, relaxes a touch.

"It's more comfortable than it looks," he admits, smiling a bit.

She laughs. "It's homey, really."

"I wouldn't go quite that far," he replies drily. "But, right now, it's all I could ask for. Lizzie… Elizabeth. Thank you."

Touched, she reaches out again, gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm glad that you came to me," she says. "It means something to me that you did."

* * *

They sit, hands still clasped together, in the dark, in the quiet. At ease together in a way neither would have thought possible. She wonders absently what has become of her anger, her confusion, her endless questions; but decides, for now, that they don't matter. This peace, this moment is worth forgoing it all — it has been missing from her frenetic life for so long.

He feels softer with her beside him, her quiet acceptance of him, his presence, is a balm to his tired mind, weary soul. He has the fleeting thought that he might finally sleep, like this, her hand in his, her quiet breathing making the night into a friendly thing. She's warm beside him, despite her bare arms and legs, residual heat from her shower pooling between them. _It's exquisite_, he thinks, not just her —body, face, mind, soul, Lizzie — but the shared silence, the communion. It's more than he dreamed would be possible between them, after Braxton, after Tom, with the Fulcrum lurking behind them like a curse. _It's beautiful_.

* * *

He's so still and quiet beside her that she wonders if he's fallen asleep. She shifts, as smoothly as she can manage, to bring her body in line with his, to share both her warmth and her newfound feeling of wellbeing. Savouring their closeness, she leans her head into her shoulder, and sighs in contentment.

He wraps an arm around her instinctively, tucks her more firmly against his side. She feels, against him, like home, and he doesn't know whether to rejoice in the feeling or to cry out at the futility of it, of this fleeting space they've carved out of their harsh reality.

He feels, she thinks (wondering how it's so), like a piece of her that's been lost — gone since Tom wasn't Tom anymore, or maybe before that, maybe he has always belonged in that empty space. She carefully tucks her arm across his middle, wanting to share at least a measure of the comfort he brings to her.

His breath catches in his throat — it's almost too much, her attention, her affection, her soft warmth beside him, her pleasure in being with him. He lets his hand run over her head, the silk of her hair, her back. It's been a very long while, Red thinks to himself, since he's found himself in bed with a woman and absolutely no idea what he will do next.

So he just sits, rests his cheek on the top of her head, breathes in, breathes out, and it's all so perfect that he just slips away.


	4. Chapter 4

She dreams of love.

Of first kisses, trembling hands and tentative touches, of whispered words of wonderment and joy. A strong hand, gentle on her face; bodies pressed together, hard and soft all at once, tangled warmth and intimate familiarity.

She seeks, swimming toward wakefulness, feeling a hand in her own, lips on her cheek. Hears her name, breathed out like a prayer, fingers tangled in her hair.

* * *

He dreams of Liz.

No longer out of reach; of the freedom to touch her, to kiss, love. He clasps her hand, whispers her name, runs a hand through the heavy silk of her hair. He smiles, in his sleep.

"Red?" She says it quietly, unsure — she thinks he's still asleep, is he dreaming? Dreaming of her, of them? Not that she hasn't thought of him, of them, together. It sometimes seems like he deliberately fills the air between them with intimacy, with sensuality.

It feels surreal, here in the quiet dark, in the space they have made for themselves, that he would want this from her, seek her as she now admits to herself that she does him. She reaches out to him, softly, hesitating, just a graze of her fingertips across his cheekbone.

Even her lightest touch elicits a little hum in response, and smiling still, sleeping still, he turns into her, wraps his other arm around her, slides a leg between hers. Enveloped by him, she gives herself to the moment. Safe and warm, awash with love released, she finds his mouth with her own and falls into him, her last cohesive thought that his lips are, impossibly, as soft as they always look.

* * *

Awareness comes to him slowly, reluctantly — he never wants to leave his dreams of her, and tonight's hasn't lasted anywhere near long enough, given him anywhere near enough of her. But then he can't, quite, distinguish between dream and reality. He can still feel her, soft and pliant in his arms, smell the fragrance of her skin; soap and lemons and Liz. Her hand is pressed against his heart, her lips, God, her lips pressed to his own. Is it real, or not real?

He blinks awake, and his eyes fill with her, and his heart trips as his body thrills to her. He gives himself a second, a moment to capture. Then he breaks away, hating the feeling of loss, hating himself. "Lizzie," he says, softly, almost wistfully.

"Don't," she replies, firmly. "Don't say it, just…" And instead of fishing for the right words, she takes his mouth again.

He can't do anything but give back to her; doesn't really want to, thinks that at least they can have this space for each other.

* * *

As they come together, in the dark, in the quiet, her every nerve ending comes alight with tingling heat, a complete awareness of him — his mouth moving against hers, the contrasting textures of his clothes, the spicy scent of his skin. His tongue traces along her bottom lip as his hand runs up her side, beneath her shirt, and the delight of sensation threatens to overwhelm her. And he's kissing her and kissing her like she's the answer to every question he's ever had, and she thinks, already dazed, that this is another piece of her that has been missing for entirely too long.

The feel of her is so tangible in his hands, her mouth so responsive, so much better than any dream, the taste of her making him ache. As she opens to him, so willing, so warm, his heart starts pounding in his ears. He thinks he might drown in her, and he doesn't care. He wants more, wants to touch, see, taste. He rolls her underneath him and dedicates his considerable ferocity of purpose to discovering the secrets of her.

* * *

Her skin is like satin under his hands as he strokes over her curves, the swell of her breast. He strokes a thumb across her nipple, feels it tighten deliciously, and she gasps a little into his mouth, arching into him. She clutches at his shirt, tugging it loose, hooks a leg over his to bring him closer.

He lifts his head, breaks their kiss to rise on his elbows and look at her — face flushed, hair tumbled, lips still parted. He lifts a hand to stroke her hair back from her face; she blinks up at him, eyes hazy and warm and wanting. He can't remember wanting anyone in quite this way, quite as much as her, in this moment.

"Oh, Lizzie," he rasps on a sigh, and leans back in to press his lips to her neck, kissing and nibbling his way down to her collarbone. Her grip on his shirt tightens; she rolls her hips into him with a murmur of pleasure. He reaches down further; strokes up her leg, feeling her muscles quiver delightfully under his touch.

He toys with the hem of her tee, lifts his head again. "May I?" he asks, his voice just a rumble now.

She doesn't speak, but lets go of him to reach between them and pull her shirt over her head.

"Lizzie," he growls, stricken by beauty, swamped with lust, need, love. "You're so very lovely."

She lowers her eyes, bites her lip. "Red," she breathes.

He reaches for her again, more intense now, puts his mouth to her breast, suckling, worshipping. He feels her hand, strong on the back of his head, as he slips a hand between her legs, finds her wet heat waiting. She moans as he strokes her, finding the right amount of pressure, circling her clit as her breath starts to quicken. Her hips loosen even as her legs stiffen, tighten around him, as she utters a soft cry.

She gives a tug to his head, draws his mouth back to hers for a kiss, and he wants to devour her whole. He slides a finger inside her, then two, continuing to circle her clit with his thumb, stroking her inner wall. She twists beneath him, panting into his mouth, clinging to him, to his shirt, one hand still on his head.

"Go on," he urges, peppering her with kisses, nipping at her earlobe. "Go over, sweetheart."

Then he gives his hand a little twist, crooks his fingers inside her, and it's just right, and she muffles her cries in the fabric of his shirt as she clenches and quivers around him.

He thinks that this, right now, Lizzie undone, is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.


	5. Chapter 5

She comes back to herself slowly.

She gradually becomes aware of him, still above her, the warm weight of him, his gentle caresses easing her through the aftershocks, a betraying rasp in his voice as he rumbles endearments. She arches her back in a stretch, feeling lazy and lovely, her body slowly coming alert again under his touch, his whispering breath.

"Red," she says, liquid and low, "You're wearing entirely too many clothes."

His hands still their movement on her body and his head drops to her shoulder briefly. _Time for a roll of the dice._ He takes a deep breath, makes an unusually quick decision, rises up to meet her eyes.

"Well," he says, with a quirk of an eyebrow, "Maybe you can help me with that."

He braces himself, pushes himself up to sit back on his heels. She follows him and applies herself to the buttons of his shirt, the repeated light touches of her fingers shooting sparks through him. He tips his head back slightly on a sigh of pleasure; she peels his shirt down his arms and tosses it behind him. She pulls his undershirt over his head and moves in to kiss his neck… then stops, stops moving, stops breathing.

"Your shoulder," she says, voice high with surprise, "Red, what…"

He keeps his eyes on hers as he takes her hand, twists his arm around to guide her to the map of damaged tissue on his back.

"Red," she says again, choking a little. "I knew you were there, the night of the fire, but… what happened? Was it… were you with me?"

"I'm sorry," he replies, reaching for her. "I've wished I could tell you everything, but…"

"It was you," she says, completely certain, unsure why. "It was you who came for me."

He nods, silent now, unable to say more. He waits for her questions, her anger, for the loss of everything they have just gained.

She sits, watches his face close like a slamming door. She knows what he expects from her now, hates herself for it, and can't find her anger. _Answers_, she thinks, _now that I've stopped caring about them_.

"I think you saved my life." she says firmly. "And we _will_ talk this out. But now… now just isn't the right time." And she leans in to take his mouth with hers.

_So it's true_, he thinks, gladly amazed, _fortune favours the bold_. And he sinks into her kiss, love washing over him, through him, as he lowers her back to the bed.

* * *

She runs her hands over him in delight — it's her turn for discovery now. Her hands are gentle over the travesty of his back, rougher over his chest, tugging the fine hair and scraping her nails over his nipples. Strokes lower to find the spot in the crease of his hipbone that makes him quiver all over. She hooks her legs around him and cradles him against her, rocks into the hard length of him.

He lets out her name on a groan, "God, Lizzie," and she reaches down to unbuckle his belt as he buries his face in her neck. She flips open his pants, fumbling a little in haste; pushes them and his boxers together over his hips, as far as she can reach. He kicks them off the rest of the way, relishing the feel of her skin against his own. She's kissing him more fiercely than before, like she can't stop, like she'll never stop.

Then she drops a hand to the hot, heavy curve of him, and he can't think of anything at all.

Her hand is delicate around him, but sure, as she uses her fingers to learn the shape and feel of him, the impossible softness of the skin over his steel core, the flexible weight of the heavy sac beneath. His breath is coming rougher now, his kisses less polished, his hands all over her, his control slipping away touch by touch.

She squeezes him gently, moves her hand in a light fist up and down the length of him in exploration and he has a moment of panic — if she doesn't stop, he's going to embarrass himself.

He manages her name, just, and she looks at him with a smile of singular sweetness.

"What do you need?" she asks, breathless herself now, thrilling at the power she holds, loving the feel of him, vibrant under his touch and as aroused as she can ever remember being.

"Do you… we should… condom?" he rasps out, unable to form a cohesive sentence. "I have to… I need… inside you before…"

"Bedside table," she says, "Should I…"

He'd never make it, he thinks, and reaches over to the drawer himself. He's covered in a light sheen of sweat that makes it hard to open the foil package — he swears and tears it between his teeth.

Task complete, his eyes come back to hers, fevered with love and lust and longing, and she feels her breath catch in her throat. Bereft of words, she reaches for him again, seeking his warmth, to reassure, to welcome. He closes his eyes briefly as he hovers over her carefully, so careful now, struggling to stay steady. So careful that it's her that moves first, shifting her weight and pulling his leg with hers so they roll, together.

* * *

She rises over him like a vision, like a goddess, and the look on his face is indescribable. As she takes him inside her, he lets out a noise that borders on pain, shudders all over, clutches at her hips.

She pauses, gives her body a moment to adjust — he's thick and hot, and it's so different from before.

He lets out her name again on a low moan, "Lizzie, God, _please_…"

She clasps his hands in hers, presses them to the mattress beside his head. Starts to move, establishing a rhythm that sends little shocks of pleasure through her, but that won't (she hopes) end things too soon. His eyes are closed now, but she keeps hers open, fixed on his face, loving the play of expressions over his features, the new lightness she can see there, the joy. She kisses him, hard, trying to pour in all the feeling that she keeps locked away, to show him that this means as much to her as it seems to mean to him.

He's helpless, beneath her, can't do anything but follow in her wake, drowning in sensation. He feels like a graceless teenager again, driven by lust, hips pistoning to match hers. He tries, weakly, to recover some shred of his customary polish and skill, but he's lost, lost in her, in Liz, in love. Her kisses are like a brand on his mouth, and it feels like sunshine, like love, and it's enough to bring him to the edge.

"Lizzie," he chokes out, "I'm…"

She can feel him tightening beneath her, inside her, and she quickens the pace, eager now, wanting, wanting. She leans forward to be close to him, kiss his face, increase the pressure on her clit, get the friction just right.

He cries out a moment before she does, and then she's clenching him like a vise as he pulses wildly.

Trembling, overwhelmed, overcome with emotion that she can't (won't) name, she slows, stills, folds into him with a sigh. _I'm so glad_, she thinks, _so glad it can still be so beautiful_.

His arms go around her, hold her close, though he's amazed he can move at all. He presses a kiss, two, three, to the top of her head on his chest, and she hums contentedly. She slips off him to curl into his side, already half asleep. He mourns the loss of her warmth even as he welcomes the feel of her against him; lies still for just a moment, memorizing the shape of her body fitted to his own.

* * *

Hazily, she feels him shift, move away from her, blinks her eyes open to see him stand up.

"Ray?" she questions softly, hesitant now.

He glances over her shoulder, smiling, and she's never seen this smile before — it transforms his whole face into something warm and lovely, like he's been given something precious.

"I just need a minute, sweetheart," he replies, tone gentle and reassuring. "I'll be right back."

She finds herself watching the flex and curve of the muscles as he strolls over to the washroom; blushes even though he can't see her. She'd forgotten the more mundane details of intimacy — is in no hurry, herself, to erase the traces of him that linger, to return to the real world.

He's back quickly enough to soothe her nerves, slides back in beside her, pulling the covers over them and resettling her in his arms. She drapes an arm across his chest, closes her eyes again, enormously tired but peaceful and safe, for now.

"You'll stay?" she whispers, trying not to make it a plea.

"As long as you'll have me," he whispers back.

In the space they made together, for each other, quiet, warm, and happy, they both slide into sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

She wakes in warmth, wrapped in blankets, and limp as a rag. She stretches like a cat, long-limbed and loose, the sheer pleasure of it delighting her. She blinks her eyes open, smiling, wondering if he's still sleeping, or is awake beside her.

But she's alone, alone in the bed, alone in the room, bathroom dark and empty, and her heart skips, smile falters and dies. She sits up, is truly alone, and wants to weep, or better yet, find her anger again. Instead, her eyes close, her hands cover her face in defeat. She flops back down to the bed, sadness creeping over her skin. She buries her face in the pillows, wallowing, only to be assaulted by the scents of Red (warm spice, scotch, a lingering hint of cigar smoke) and sex.

She bolts upright, eyes wide, can't take it, it's all too much. Then her eyes fall on the armchair in the corner, and the relief is so overwhelming it's like a shot of adrenalin. His vest, jacket, tie, are still folded neatly on the seat, topped jauntily by the oh-so-familiar fedora.

_If nothing else_, she thinks wryly, trying for composure, _he wouldn't leave the hat behind_.

Her tension draining, she debates a shower idly. It's Saturday, so she's on-call but not obligated to go in to the office with the current case wrapped (had it only been yesterday?). She thinks staying in bed a while longer has more merit… but at least a brief trip to the bathroom is needed.

* * *

He slips in the door as quietly as he can, hoping to catch her still asleep. But the bed is empty and water's running behind the closed bathroom door — ah, well. He puts the cardboard tray of coffee cups down on the tiny motel table, the bag of warm, fresh bagels beside it.

He kicks off his shoes and reclines on the bed with the front section of the paper, feeling vaguely domestic, and pleased about it. He's quickly drawn in to an article about the previous day's capture — approved media release only, of course — absorbed enough that he misses the quiet click of the bathroom door.

She pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. _What a picture that is_, she thinks, _the Concierge himself, all rolled-up shirtsleeves and wrinkled slacks and sock feet, relaxed in my bed_. For some reason she can't name, she finds the sock feet adorable; it makes her feel silly and sweet.

"Is that coffee I smell?" she says, brightly, "Kind of you to go out for it, thanks."

He looks up with a smile, about to reply, but doesn't — just looks at her, lips parted, eyes darkening slightly.

It's honestly not until that empty moment that she remembers she's still naked.

* * *

A flush starts to crawl over her, and she takes a few steps back into the bathroom. He gives himself a mental shake as she eases out of view.

"Oh no, Lizzie," he says darkly, "Don't hide from me now. I can't think of anything I'd rather see than you, sweetheart."

Bolstering herself, she walks out into the room, sits down beside him on the edge of the bed. Feeling daring — and a little ridiculous, considering — she leans in to kiss him good morning.

He's surprised and pleased enough to let her sit right back; her smile seems easy now, and her eyes are clear and happy.

"Good morning, Ray," she says. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in years," he replies, wonderingly. "I haven't felt this good in ages."

She laughs freely. "I was thinking the same thing, when I first woke up," she admits. "We must be good for one another."

His face softens. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Lizzie," he says earnestly. "I have to admit to worrying that you might have some regrets."

Liz takes a closer look at him, then, and sees to her surprise that, behind his warm smile, his eyes are wary and unsure. She sees that this man, who brims with self-assured aplomb and suave confidence, who wears his unapologetic sensuality with the same ease as he does his tailored suit, is off center with her. That, in all the months of back and forth between them, her struggle to find her footing in the wreckage, of saying she cares and then banishing him, all her flailing struggles and anger and frustration have reduced him. That even now, together in the bed they shared, part of him is waiting for another rejection.

And she's been quiet for too long, she realizes, because his smile is fading away, eyes going cloudy. To anchor herself as much to reassure him, she reaches out and takes his hand.

"I can't say I don't have concerns," she says, trying for complete honesty. "Things have changed between us, and there are ramifications we'll have to face."

He nods, sighing; drops his gaze to their joined hands.

"But, Ray?" and she gives his hand a little squeeze to make him look at her again. "Even if I could go back, could change what happened, I wouldn't."

And this time, it's the joy on his face that makes her heart trip, and fall the rest of the way into love.


	7. Chapter 7

"_Even if I could go back, could change what happened, I wouldn't_."

He raises his face to meet her eyes, shot through with a bolt of happiness, so glad there would be no new darkness between them. What he sees in her eyes, looking back at him, strikes him to the core, takes his words, steals his breath. The rational part of him wants to deny it, to go back, put distance back between them. The rest of him just reaches for her (wanting, wishing, hoping), and folds her into his arms.

She wraps her arms hard around him in return, as fierce now in caring for him as she has ever been in anger, or sadness, or disappointment. She can't find words, either, needs time to settle into this rush of feeling, but wants to share at least some of it with him. As much as she can.

He strokes a hand down her back, entranced by the feel of firm muscle under silken skin. She's leaner, harder now than she was in those first days and weeks, and he regrets the necessity even as he is fascinated by her strength. She shivers under his touch; he thrills to it, loves her responsiveness, her openness.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "The feel of you, in my arms, under my hands…" he trails off, presses his lips to the side of her neck.

She gives a small sigh of pleasure. "You feel," she replies thoughtfully, hands spread across his lower back, "Like you have me at a disadvantage — again." She tugs at his shirt, pulling it free from the waistband of his pants. "I hope this isn't going to be an ongoing theme in our relationship."

He laughs, surprised and pleased by her teasing. "If you expect me to find a problem with you being naked," he replies cheerily, "You are doomed to disappointment. I won't, however, object if you'd like to level the playing field a bit." And he sits back and looks at her with a sly grin that she can only call mischievous, and a sharp glint in his eye.

She feels the heat slowly start to uncurl inside her under his gaze, and her breath starts to quicken even as she leans in to unbutton his shirt. He starts to trace patterns on her back, silky light touches, and he could swear her eyes are getting bluer as he watches her face. She makes much quicker work of his shirt than last time, and he's got nothing underneath it, now. She takes a deep breath, loving (has always loved) the scent of him; her eyelids flutter closed.

He shifts to run a hand through her hair; cups her face and kisses her softly, then again, and again. Her hands run up and down his chest, along his broad shoulders, wind around his neck, leaving trails like fire in their wake. His kisses get harder and he licks his way into her mouth. One hand holding the back of her head, he presses the other to her back and brings her body up against his own.

The skin-to-skin contact makes her moan, wanting more, all of him, everything. She swings a leg around to straddle his lap, the rough texture of his slacks making her squirm a little; he's already hard as iron beneath her.

He breaks their kiss to lean his forehead against hers, catches his breath.

"Not so fast, sweetheart," he says, darkly. "We've got time, now…"

And everything inside her clenches tight at the heavy promise in his voice.

* * *

He turns his body on the bed; lowers her to lay beside him. Stands quickly to divest himself of his pants, socks — he leaves his boxers for now, though, since he wants to take his time, exploring Lizzie. The morning light is still dim, filtered through the motel curtains, but it's more than enough to see by. He gives himself a moment just to look at her, to feel fully the impact of the gift that he, that _they,_ have been given.

She watches him looking at her, drinking in her body like it might be the last thing he ever sees, and the ball of heat in her belly starts to expand. His eyes are dark now, and his fingers twitch against his thighs, like he's just deciding where he should touch her first. Then he licks his lips, and she didn't know it was possible to _want_ this much.

"Ray," she breathes, fisting her hands in the sheet beneath her. "Touch me, please… I want your hands on me."

He's beside her again in a flash of movement she can barely track, takes her face in his hands, turns it toward him, takes her mouth. He moves one hand to trace a line down her neck, then across her collarbone, down the center of her chest. He rises over her, kisses her forehead, cheeks, lips (again, and again — he can't help himself), then he's following the path of his hand — neck, collarbone, chest, downward.

His mouth is soft and wet, yet hot as a branding iron on her flesh, each touch still tangible long after he's moved on. He seems intent on laying hands or mouth or both on every last inch of her, and she wonders if it's possible to pass out from aching desire. He's moved out of her reach now, and she's never thought of the back of her knee as particularly erotic, but he's flicked out his tongue and licked across her tendon, and she nearly orgasms there and then.

"Ray…" she moans, clutching at the hand he's got resting on her hip.

"Patience, sweetheart," he says, voice so low now it reverberates through her body from where his cheek touches her leg. "Patience."

He doesn't stop moving, hands everywhere, lips, and she can't think, her vision's blurred — has it been seconds, minute, hours? She can't tell, and doesn't care. Then he's there, at the center of her, and the feel of his tongue on her clit is more than enough to send her over the edge, and she comes in a blinding rush of sensation that leaves her gasping and quivering. He thinks that he's never tasted anything quite like her before, and he's not done yet, he's nowhere near done (may never be done), he's just getting started.

Her senses come back to her one by one, and it takes a few of them before she realizes she's still under onslaught. One of her legs seems to be over his shoulder, and he's doing things with his wickedly talented tongue that should be illegal, and probably are. She puts her hands on his head, not knowing if she wants to stop him or urge him on. Then she feels his teeth close over her just as he slides a finger inside her, and she cries out, lost again.

* * *

When she comes back this time, it's to the feel of his body on her own, warm hand stroking back her hair, whispers in her ear, "So beautiful, so lovely, Lizzie, so beautiful."

She sighs, swamped with pleasure, still tingling all over; she feels like she's made of love.

"Come to me, Ray," she murmurs, and she can't keep it out of her voice. "Come to me, now."

His heart trembles at her tone, at what he thinks he hears in her voice, but he can't wait any longer. He's ready, prepared while she was under, and he enters her in one long thrust that makes her back arch. He puts his mouth to her breast, sets a pace that he thinks will please them both. She's almost whimpering now, not sure how much more she can take, but she still wants, wants. They move together like they were made for it.

He's speeding up now, can't hold on, she's so hot and slick and lovely and she's everything, and "Come on, now, sweetheart," he urges, "With me, now."

"I can't," she gasps, already so wrung out with pleasure that she doesn't understand how she's still moving, moving with him. "I can't, Ray."

"Oh, but you can," he assures her, kissing her fiercely. "You can, and you must." And he slips a hand between them to circle her clit firmly as he thrusts. She screams into his neck as wave after wave washes over her, and he empties himself, crying out in return.

He collapses into her, manages to shift his weight to the side. He thinks, hazily, that he may never move again.

After a still minute, two, of perfect peace, she manages to prop herself up enough to look him in the eye. "Well," she says, still panting a little, "What do you want to do now?" And she smiles at him like a beam of light.

He looks at her, gauging, then he throws back his head and laughs, free and easy, like he hasn't laughed in years.


	8. Chapter 8

Showers, they agreed, should come first — the coffee had gone cold, and it seemed necessary to venture outside the cozy room. Showers, however, quickly became a singular shower (in more ways than one), when she points out the lack of hot water and the opportunity to save some time. They end up washing in cold, anyway. Now that the barriers are down between them, they can't be put back, and neither of them really wants that.

He can't keep his hands off her — a well of hunger has been uncapped within him, and she is the only thing that can fill it. She is endlessly fascinating. The look and feel of her pale, luminous skin and long, strong limbs; the way she wraps herself around him like she wants to become a part of him. The way her probing, questing nature turns itself to learning the shapes and patterns of him — not just his body, but his needs and desires, and all the places the two of them fit together. He loved her before, protectively, fiercely, but always with an undertone of defeat. Now, now he loves her with a terrible and passionate yearning that makes him almost afraid.

For her, it feels new still, this love for him, her passion and its depthless want tempered by a tenderness that disarms her. As much as she wants to touch, taste, mark him as hers, she wants to draw him in close and cradle him to her. To protect and shield him, use her love to build him back into the man he was meant to be. She thought she knew what love was — hers, at least, was always true and real — but this, this ocean feeling has a power that is all new, and she revels in the beauty of it. She had already known she would kill to keep him safe (_has_ killed to keep him safe); now, knowing there's absolutely nothing she wouldn't do, she feels the first tendrils of fear over the capacity they have to destroy each other.

* * *

She takes a bit longer in the bathroom, drying her hair, and emerges on shaky legs to dress. "We have _got_ to eat," she says, as she dons bra and panties, climbs into a pair of soft leggings, pulls a worn long-sleeve tee over her head. "Or I'll just collapse here and now."

She turns to him to see if he's ready; sees he's been watching her dress with hooded eyes, an expression she already recognizes growing on his face.

"Oh, no," she laughs, even as her insides shiver in response, "Wipe that look off your face and let's go. Food and caffeine must be next. They must." And she grabs his hand to pull him toward the door.

He lets her drag him out, out of their dark and quiet space and into the daylight, though he knows (better than most) that time is short, so short. Not just because he, too, is both ravenous and spent, but because her happy playfulness is so engaging; it warms him through, makes him feel closer to human than he has in a long time.

They eat in a small coffee shop, not saying much, just sitting together, as if they have carried their safe place along with them. They sit at the counter, side by side, and watch the world go past in its Saturday rush. She recognizes the way everything looks brighter, cleaner, how all the faces she sees look happy. She knows it's her that's different, it's the flush of love in her, and wraps the joy of it around her while she can.

* * *

When they get back, even her room looks better — his jacket and hat still piled on her chair, the scent of him still hanging faintly in the air — it feels like home. They sit, a bit reluctantly — him in the miserable chair, her perched at the end of the bed — and heaviness comes into the air.

"It's time now, Ray," she says softly. "No more hiding. Tell me my story — I won't interrupt; I won't yell or argue, I promise you."

He breathes in and out for one more minute, making sure it's all locked safely away in his mind; the touch, taste, smell of her, all his new bits and pieces of Lizzie, his Lizzie. Afraid, but he can't turn back.

"Your mother's name was Katarina Rostova," he says quietly, voice deep and sure. "At least it was when I knew her. She was a KGB agent. You were born in Russia, and your name was Masha."

And he keeps talking for what seems like hours. Spies and covert missions and government secrets; the Fulcrum and lies and betrayal; fire and death and loss; Masha and Elizabeth and Sam; Ray to Reddington to Red. Life on the run and the struggle to stay a step, or two or three, ahead; Fitch and Cooper; Kuwait and Russia and China. The words tumble and pour out of him like a river that can't stop until it reaches the sea, and she sits, frozen and quiet, and lets them wash over and through her.

She has questions, so many questions; there are times she wants to weep, to yell, to pace the room; she wants to rail at him, scream out why, why, why. Why her? But she promised and he's finally giving her everything she always thought she wanted from him (she never imagined how wrong she would be about that).

So she stays quiet and listens, takes it all in and really listens to him, maybe for the first time. When he speaks of his wife and daughter, she takes his hand and then keeps it, supporting him. He ends his story, hoarse and red-eyed, exhausted and pale, on his knees in the atrium of FBI headquarters.

"You know the rest," he finishes wearily, "More or less." He feels aged and wrung out, worse than after he was shot, worse than ever before, because he knows what's coming. He releases her hand and starts to pull away, to lean back, but she doesn't let go and he's surprised enough to meet her eyes.

"Thank you," she says, seeing both the surprise and what might be hope there in his face. "Thank you for trusting me, for giving me my past… and some of yours. Thank you for believing in me enough, and in us… It's a lot to process."

He nods, solemnly. "I'll leave you to decide what you want next," he says. "If it's what you want," he adds, just so she knows he'd rather stay.

She surprises him again when she smiles at him, and squeezes his hand.

"We're a team, aren't we?" she asks, with a quirk of her eyebrow. "I'm with you, now."

He draws in breath sharply. "Lizzie," he starts, hesitant.

"Ray," she interrupts smoothly. "Listen to me, now. I'm not being coy or disingenuous. I'm with you. Outside of personal considerations, with everything that's happened, that might happen now, we're safest together, don't you think?"

"Safest," he repeats, "Yes, I do think so, have thought so for a long while now."

"Good," she says, briskly. "I know you won't want to stay here, and it's certainly no secret this is where I've been living, so just give me a few minutes to get my things together."

His head is swimming; he was so certain the truth would ruin them, would tear her from him. Instead, he's getting everything he could have ever wanted? It doesn't feel real.

"Personal considerations?" he asks, needing more, needing tangible reassurance of her intent.

She leans in and takes his face in her hands. "Ray," she says, almost impatient, but remembering how he sees himself, takes care to let her feelings swell into her voice. "I love you. I'm in love with you, and I love you. With you, now, I'm home, I'm complete in a way I've never been, that I never knew was even possible. _I'm with you_, I'm yours…" and she falters now, because she can't read his face at all, and then he looks away. "…if you want me…" she finishes, dropping her hands into her lap, fear back in force.

He looks back at her, now, and the fierce blaze of love and joy in his face takes her breath away, along with her fears.

"If I want you," he breathes. "Lizzie, I want you like I want my next breath. I have loved you for far too long, and I know I don't deserve it, no, don't interrupt me, I don't, but I don't care. I'll take your love and thank God it's mine, because I can't let you go. I love you and I'm in love with you, and I need you, I need you with me."

She smiles at him, sublimely happy — the dark is gone, now, and in the light she kisses him.

"We'll face it together, then," she says. "And together, we'll win."

* * *

A/N: And that's that, more or less. My first full-fledged fic! You all have been an amazingly supportive group of readers, and I have to thank you so much! Hopefully, inspiration will strike again soon...


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